Heart's on Fire
by morbid bookworm
Summary: 'To be the only thing Gilbert wanted or needed to live and be happy . . . that was enough for Oz.'


**Ohmygod what have I done? This is labeled as Bed on my Word Doc, the next chapter of Siblings, Beds and Burned Down Buildings, but then I started with the Ozbert fluff and it all went downhill from there. In the end this turned out too mushy to be part of SBaBDB, so I'm posting it as it's own one-shot. Now I have to start over!**

**Seriously, this did not end up at all how I planned. Ah, well. Happy accidents!  
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**The title has nothing to do with the fic, it's just the Passenger song I was listening to. Although it just changed to Bullets as I'm writing this.  
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**I do not own Pandora Hearts, but Oz most certainly own Gil, in every way shape and form. OZ IS GIL'S OWNER. **

**I just like saying that. :)**

**This was beta'd by the wonderful and amazing AbbieDabbie. It's kind of stupid that when you send someone a Docx they can't do anything to it. Or maybe we're just stupid for not figuring out how.**

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"Hey, Giiiiiillll~!"

Gilbert had just enough warning to smash his cigarette on one of the many ashtrays littering his bedside table before he was hit with a miniature apposing rocket force and suddenly wound up with a knee in his gut, a pain in his head and an armful of giggling blonde master.

"Oz," he groaned, wrapping his arms around the boy and shifting the in his lap so they could both sit comfortably.

"Sorry Gil," Oz grinned sheepishly and bumped his forehead affectionately to Gilbert's. Gil felt the heat rise in his face and looked away quickly.

"I-is there something you need?" he spluttered awkwardly. With Oz basically straddling his legs as they lay splayed out across the bed, their situation was less than proper.

Oz stuck his lower lip out in a pout and reached up to place his arms around Gilbert's shoulders for better balance.

"Maybe I just wanted to talk with you," he said. "What, do you not want me here?"

One hand played with the dark curls that brushed against the pale, delicate skin of his servant's neck. Gilbert shivered, and Oz had to suppress a smile. Gil was so cute.

"T-that's not . . ." Gilbert's voice trailed off as Oz slipped his hand up to tangle in his wavy hair. He gently stirred the thick curls there and pressed his fingertips against his scalp, scratching lightly.

Gilbert practically melted beneath him. There was a faint thunk as his head fell back against the headboard, arms wrapped loosely around Oz's waist, the boy's hand still gripping his hair.

Oz lifted his other hand to stroke along Gil's hairline, his thumb brushing against his temple and his fingers sliding easily through the silky dark strands that fell about his face. He watched triumphantly as Gilbert's eyelids fluttered shut, lips parting softly as his breathing evened out.

He was totally and completely relaxed, and totally and completely at Oz's mercy. There was a small part of Oz that wanted to snap the poor man out of his trance with some comment about how cat-like he was acting or what a pervert he was for enjoying his master's attention so much, but in the end he did no such thing. He just smiled, happy to be the only one who could unwind the tight coil of nerves and anxiety that was Gilbert Nightray.

In fact, he could practically feel the contentment and peace radiating off his servant. It made him smile even wider, and then he leaned forward on a whim and pressed his smile against Gilbert's slack mouth, like a kiss, except not.

Gil was too dazed to even react the way he usually would have, with blushes and stuttering and twitches. He opened his eyes blearily and smiled too, nuzzling his smile over Oz's.

Oz giggled and pulled away.

"Gil's so cute."

"M' not cute . . ." Gilbert managed.

"Yes, you are ~" Oz sang, trailing his fingers over his ear and the cool band of gold bridging the curve of cartilage, and Gilbert couldn't remember why he was protesting.

Oz loved this. He loved this part of their relationship, where he was the one and only thing that could make Gil utterly calm and happy, and he knew Gil loved it too. It was something quite wonderful and extraordinary, this closeness, this intimacy. It was an amazing feeling to be able to reach into the heart of a raven, swathed in darkness and smoke and blood, and touch the gentle place that Oz knew was reserved for him and him alone. To know that every tall, sweeping line and angle, every lonely night in his apartment, every hard drink and burning cigarette, every dream and nightmare, every chain and bullet, every tear and smile and touch was for him. To see this great and powerful person and know without a doubt that he belonged only to him . . .

It filled Oz with something trembling, but unafraid, something that seemed to expand his through his heart, his whole body and into the air around him, and at the same time shrink into the palm of his hand where he could better examine and understand it, something pleasantly warm and soothingly cool, something _breathtaking_.

It had been scary at first, to see how much Gil had grown, a far cry from the tiny, easily contained little boy who had thought only of how much sugar to put in his master's tea, and Oz had been uncertain in his own ability to control such a person. How could he, frozen in time and stuck on that distant plane removed from reality as he was, take hold of all the many years and experiences that made up this man and _own_ them?

But . . . it had been easy. Because Gil gave him everything, he gave him every new layer, he gave him _Raven_, and Oz just tucked each new piece into the growing picture of Gil in his heart. This Gil was the same, but he was also so much more, and Oz rather liked him. In fact, he thought he might like this Gil even more, because of course, there was so much more to like. To love.

And now Gil was big enough to hold him, too. This was another thing Oz was particularly fond of. He liked wearing Gil's too big shirts to bed, and getting swamped in his dark coat to keep away the cold and rain, sometimes while Gil was still wearing it himself. He liked stealing Gil's hat, and being cradled in his arms when he carried him to bed, and jumping on him with the intent of knocking him on the ground, only for Gil to straighten up easily with Oz still on his back.

He like the way Gil's larger, rougher hand would envelope his own on the rare occasions he wasn't wearing gloves, pulling him back to his side, and how it felt when that hand was pressed against his cheek and Gil seemed to cradle his whole head between his warm palms. He liked touching the blue shadow of stubble on Gil's jaw in the wee hours of the morning, when Oz would sneak into his room and curl up against his broad chest, the only place he felt truly safe, and Gil would move without waking up to shield him from the early sunlight.

And Gil was starting to like it too, Oz could tell. Gil liked being big enough to protect Oz from whatever might hurt him, to be able to give him whatever he needed. He just needed to remember that that was all that mattered, not the past or whatever sins he may have committed back then. And Oz just needed to remember to let him. They were learning, slowly, slowly, how to rearrange themselves to fit together in the best possible way . . .

As if responding to Oz's thoughts, Gilbert's arms tightened around him and he rested his forehead in the crook of his shoulder, breathing deeply and smiling against his warm skin, Oz's hands still tangled in his hair. Oz giggled again and dragged his hands down Gilbert's back, delighting in the faint, pleased hum his servant breathed against his neck. They were tangled on Gilbert's bed, a pair of mismatched limbs wound loosely around each other and warm, sleepy smiles dipped in a well of peace.

To be the only thing Gilbert wanted or needed to live and be happy . . . that was enough for Oz.

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**I hope you enjoyed this completely mindless piece of fluff! I'm going to be starting school in a week, and I have an idea for a long-term Percy Jackson story, so after I complete the PH fics I'm currently working on, you'll probably only hear from me in reviews on your own stories.  
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**Which reminds me . . . You see the box down there, underneath my pathetic attempts at arrows? Just type something nice right there, click the 'post review' button and make my day! l**

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